STOP YELLING AT ME, please...

Tranquil Pines (Sneak Peek)

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 24 Apr 2017 00:22:00 +0000

Chapter One

“Daddy?” Courtney runs over to her fallen father, clutching the corner of the coffee table as he grunts in agony. “Daddy, what is it?” she yells out with concern as her curly strawberry blonde hair falls over her shoulder brushing her father across the cheek and nose. He opens his mouth but only low utters of sound comes out; no noises or tones that seem remotely close to words. “Daddy, is it your chest? Does your chest hurt daddy? Daddy please talk to me!” Courtney cries out with panic as she holds her father's hand as he slides slowly and painfully down the edge of the table and on to his back. Their plush sand colored carpet caught his head, as he fell not making a sound. His head hitting the floor like a ten pound bowling ball. “Oh my god!” she thinks to herself while tears stream down her porcelain face as she sobs over her lifeless father.

Whirls of loud sirens wail over the Beckenhoff household as the ambulance screeches into the black paved driveway. Somewhere within the rush and panic of the evening Courtney must have dialed 911; although her memory of the situation is a blur as though it happened years ago and moments before the ambulance arrived.

Four emergency service people rush in, three average size men and one short small-framed woman with her short blonde hair pulled tight in a bouncing ponytail. The team immediately assesses the situation and executes their job thoroughly. As her father is being wheeled out of the front door of the house where she had experienced her first boo-boo; a flood of memories came pouring in as she held her daddy’s hand as he was furiously rushed into the ambulance awaiting him outside. “What is it?”

Courtney asked while running to get into the ambulance long hair bouncing off of her back like a ball and paddle. “It appears your father may have suffered a stroke, but we won’t know anything for sure until he is seen by the doctors.” The small blonde woman replied as she helped load the gurney onto the ambulance. Courtney speaks aloud with her head in her hands. “A what? There’s no way; he’s in perfect health and walks two miles every morning before breakfast.” The weeping, now childlike woman couldn’t escape the heart wrenching flashes of her once big strong daddy lying helpless on the floor.

“No, no, no.” Her green eyes flood with tears again as she begins to cry uncontrollably. She squeezes her eyes shut and opens them again as if doing so she will suddenly awaken from a horrible dream. Terror and panic once again fill her chest realizing she is not dreaming. “Damn it! This has to be the world’s longest Ambulance ride” she thought as they continued to race down the street. The once beautiful slender woman is now reduced to an openly weeping child in the shell of a woman’s body. She stands up stretching her long shapely legs wanting to pace the floor but without ample room to even stand without bumping her head. With that quick and somewhat painful reality she quickly sits back down, with her body full of jitters and needing to release energy her knee starts to shake profusely.

Chapter Two

The emergency room was riddled with sickness and pain. Courtney quickly glanced around the room noticing a mother holding her twin girls as all three cried hysterically while the doctor gently rubbed the mother’s shoulder and mouthed the words “I’m so sorry”.

A male doctor approached with white and black peppered hair and copper wire framed classes, wearing turquoise scrubs and a white overcoat. “What do we have?” the doctor asked the EMS team. “A male Caucasian…presenting with…” the words trailed off into another language as she tried to read between the lines of all the medical terminology. “Ma’am nurse Joy is going to have to get some information from you.” The doctor said as he turned and looked Courtney in the eye. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Courtney replied half sobbing while wiping her face with a Kleenex she found while scrounging around in her undersized purse. Large purses simply didn’t fit into Courtney’s life, too much room to lose things in she always said. The doctor turned his attention away from Courtney focusing on the EMS team and said “Take him to exam room three, I’m on my way. Joy!?” The doctor called out while scanning the nurses’ station. “Ah, there you are, this is…” The doctor pauses waiting a reply from the slender woman who was now dabbing at dry red eyes. “Oh… Courtney Beckenhoff” she interrupted quietly while extending her free hand that was once hanging on to her ribcage for dear life.

“Hi Ms. Beckenhoff, I’m nurse Briggs but everyone here calls me nurse Joy. I think it’s because I bring them all so much joy.” The nurse continued to speak while smiling and walking to a private area “That was doctor Nuvall you had the brief pleasure of meeting.” “You can just call me

Courtney” she replied while taking long strides to keep up with the short but speedy nurse. “Okay, Courtney it is. Now I’m going to ask you some questions about your father and please be sure to answer them as thoroughly as possible. If you have any questions during or after don’t hesitate to ask. Nurse Joy certainly lived up to her name in the dismal place that she worked. By the end of the usually boring and annoying set of questions nurse Joy had the worried daughter smiling and laughing. For a split second Courtney almost forgot why she was there.

By the end of the night the once towering, robust Gregory Beckenhoff had been reduced to a shell of his former self. Eyes still terribly swollen and red from spending most of her Saturday crying the still shaken Courtney held her father’s hand as she stroked his face and thought how feeble he now looked. The doctors told her he was stable for now but would need to be kept in ICU for further evaluations and to better monitor his condition. Knowing her father had slipped into a coma she vowed to be by his bed side every free moment she had. Tonight was one of the only nights she had wished she weren’t an only child.

What I Honestly Think About Thinx

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 17 Apr 2017 16:35:00 +0000

First of all, let me just tell you how difficult it was to find a photo of women’s underwear that didn’t look like porn lite. Oh, and I’m also not a fan of the word panties. Even typing it makes me feel all weird and squirmy, and I have no idea why. Ok, let’s get back on track.

If you are a menstruating woman, I’m sure you have heard of the new underwear specifically made for your period. Now, to some that may sound pretty gross, but if you’re like me and hate pantyliners…these could be the key to living your life with a less sweaty lady region. Last month I took some disposable income and spent the money on Thinx to see if they were worth my time. I was really sold by the 60 day money back guarantee, because these undies are a little expensive for them to not work as described (if you get the period pack, they apply a discount).

My package arrived a few days after I ordered it, since I splurged for expedited shipping. I wanted to make sure those things were here in time for P day. What surprised me the most was how cute these underwear were. The thickness wasn’t what I thought, but did remind me a little of bathing suit material. The first day wearing them wasn’t any different than wearing any other pair of underwear. I only use them as a back-up, so you have to determine which use is best for you and what you need.

If you have a heavy cycle, these undies are only good for a back-up, or short wear. The pair for heavy flow days only holds two tampons worth of fluid. The website does not specify if these are regular tampons or super, so I assumed regular. Typically, I use a menstrual cup, which lasts up to 12 hours on regular and light days. On heavy days I can get 4 hours max out of the cup, so these Thinx were absolutely perfect for replacing pantyliners. I’ve used Thinx for two cycles now, and have not had any leaks or other unfortunate situations occur.

These underwear are made out of material that holds off bacteria, so there’s no funky smell. Thinx also does a fairly good job at wicking the moisture away from your body. On light days you can feel confident wearing Thinx as your only protection. These underwear are breathable, cute, and stay in place. I think these are great for when you know your cycle is coming, but you just aren’t completely sure what day, so you don’t mess up your cute undies.

The drawback. Now, y’all knew that there had to be a drawback. Every rave review comes with a critique. You have to rinse them by hand, which is eww for some people. The other thing I dislike is, you can’t use fabric softener on them AND you have to fish through the wet laundry so you can hang dry these bad boys. I’m not one of those ladies that hand wash their delicates, or washes them separate. I just don’t have time for that.

Would I recommend these? Absolutely! If you have a vagina with the slightest chance of it expelling your unutilized uterine lining every 26-31 days, then it’s definitely worth the investment. I’m actually going to buy more, because they came out with even cuter designs. No, I’m not being sponsored by Thinx, but wouldn’t that be cool. I’m simply a lady with a menstrual cycle, who knows other ladies with menstrual cycles that are curious, but too afraid to try the undies without an honest review. So, I took one for the team!

~J~

Elf on the Shelf for the Lazy Mom

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 01 Dec 2016 14:16:00 +0000

I get it. You see all of these fancy elves filling up your social media feed, and you think to yourself, “hey, I love my kids just as much as those moms do, but dang that’s just too much and I’m way too lazy.” Or maybe you’re thinking, “I work 40-500 hours a week between work, kids and everything else going on, that’s just too much.”

Well, have no fear. Elf on the Shelf for the lazy mom is here!

I, like you, love my kids dearly. I think they’re the best things ever, and it’s not a blow to the ego that they look like me, so that makes them adorable to boot. Though, I think this whole trend of making your kid’s childhood magical AF and hurt feelings free is complete crap, I do want them to have a little fun with that dang ugly creepy elf. Plus, he freaks my oldest child and husband out. To me, that makes our little tan elf magical enough.

Let’s get down to the lazy elf business.

1. The first thing you want to do is buy the elf on a shelf. You can buy a knock off, or spend the $30 on the name brand elf on a shelf. Bring him home to your kids and let them pick out a name. You can read the book if you want to, or you can skip to the end so you know the gist and go on about your merry way.

2. Step two is something that will make your life so much easier. Let your chubby faced kids know that they are not allowed to touch the creepy elf or he will lose his magic. This step is important, because if you’re reading this, then you have kids and you know that they can’t resist touching something they’re not supposed to. This will save you on the days you forget to move the elf, or you just don’t feel like it. When they ask why the elf didn’t move, just say “someone must’ve touched him.” If you have more than one kid they’ll turn on each other and you can be satisfied they’re not looking at you as the culprit.

3. 3. The elf does not need to do anything extravagant, unless you’re feeling extra supermom-y that day. My elf is currently sitting inside of our toaster because he wanted to be a bagel and got stuck. He’s not the brightest elf on a shelf, and yours doesn’t have to be either. They’re Santa’s drones, how smart can they be?

4. 4. If you remember that you forgot to move the elf, just leave him in the same spot but switch his pose. Or place him somewhere else, remember, elves are stupid and kids are too. And no, I don’t mean your kid isn’t the smartest four year old that ever lived. I mean developmentally, kids are not the brightest crayons in the box either, or let’s face it, they wouldn’t be believing the elf who is made out of plastic and felt is flying to the North Pole to tell some imaginary fat guy what they were up to in order to get Christmas presents.

5. 5. Start off slow. Don’t set yourself up for failure or your kids up for disappointment. If you decide to buy the elf, start off by just moving him from surface to surface. If you do this, then when you get a wild hair to try something you saw on Pintrest, your kid will be amazed at your elf’s shenanigans when he does do something interesting.

6. 6. Just have fun! No matter what you do, your kid will still think you poop rainbows. You popped those crying little chubby things out. You feed them and shove them out the door so the school can feed them when you forget to pack a lunch, or just don’t pack a lunch. You pick them up when they fall and either kiss their little knees, or tell them to suck it up. Either way, you’re already a kick ace mom and that little elf with his dumb annoying self will be magical AF for your little boogers.

People, I Have a Problem!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 27 Nov 2016 17:31:00 +0000

So. We have acquired a kitten. I know you’re thinking to yourself “how does one just acquire a kitten?” Let me answer that for you. I belong to a page on Facebook for military wives. I am no longer a military wife, but my kids are military kids and it’s nice to have a group of ladies that understand the struggles.

Anyway, someone found an itty bitty kitty playing in the road outside of the base. They of course posted an adorable photo of the kitten asking for some pushover (raises hand “me”) to foster or adopt the kitten. I have too many animals, and some may question if I have too many children as well, but I thought I could totally foster this tiny baby cat until we collectively found her a forever home.

I picked up the cat like an obvious drug deal going down in the middle of the parking lot of a local bakery, but instead of exchanging drugs for money, we exchanged a kitten for a handshake and gratitude. Well, I can’t think of a good reason that I shouldn’t keep her. She’s got a sweet round face and patch work fur. She squeaks and meows. She does obvious cat stuff. She adopted us as her people, and now I can’t give her away.

No one let me foster another animal. I cannot handle the responsibility. I just can’t do it. I’m a few animals away from being a hoarder.

Yes. I know I have a problem.

Meet our new kitten, Callie Cat!

One day, I too will be a motherless mom

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 19 Nov 2016 15:45:00 +0000

My 36^th birthday crept up on me very quickly. It truly feels like I just turned twenty-five last year, but I digress. This past year I have become more aware of my mortality, as well as the mortality of my parents, but especially my mother. Sure, I learned about this stage of development in adults entering middle age and I understand that it’s perfectly normal. I guess I just didn’t expect for me to hit me at the most inopportune time, my birthday.

Every year my mom calls me for my birthday and before I can speak, she begins singing me the Happy Birthday song. Every year without fail, she sings me the song and proceeds to tell me that my birthday isn’t really until later in the evening, around 7:10 EST. I know that I can count on this phone call, no matter what she’s doing. This year she was at work, and made a point to step out during her morning break and call me for my birthday song. This year was also the year that my adult brain decided it was time to hit this developmental milestone of the middle aged. As my mom happily sang to me as she’s done every year that I can remember, the backs of my eyes began to sting, and a lump formed in my throat.

For the first time in my entire life, it dawned on me, that I should soak up every pitch of her voice and the way she formed all of her words, because one birthday the phone wouldn’t ring. One birthday instead of awkwardly smiling while she finished the song, instead I would be crying because it would be the first year that I didn’t hear that high pitched squeal following her melodic celebration of my birth.

Now, as a person in my thirties, I certainly have experienced death, and have several friends that have lost one or both parents. Knowing someone that has lost a parent is not the same as losing one yourself, and the weight that comes along with it. In fact, I’m not sure I would know how to parent without my mom. I still call my mom for all kinds of advice or when my feelings are hurt. I can’t help but want my mom to help me feel better.

For now, I have decided that I can’t fear what may come in the future. While I still have the luxury of celebrating major life events with my mom, I’m going to enjoy it. I’ll just be sure to cherish the things that I once took for granted. I’ll ask the questions that I don’t remember the answers to. I’ll call and do my best to visit more. I’ll soak up her scent and commit it to memory.

My mom is one of my very best friends, and when she gets old my siblings and I will likely fight over who she is going to live with (seriously, I see this becoming a very real issue for us). She has taken the time to make each of us feel special, and has nurtured our individual personal relationships with her. I strive daily to be at least half the mom that she was, and is to me.

One day, I too will be a motherless mom, but today I’m just not ready and may not ever be.

~J~

Don't Pee on That!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 30 Jul 2016 15:26:00 +0000

Kids. They truly just amaze me. Unpredictable yet predictable. Sporadic yet consistent. And just when you think you've got their tricks down to a science, they make a complete game changer!

When my girls were younger I thought, “Oh I got this! These girls are a piece of cake.” Now that I have a boy, man have my thoughts taken a complete 180!

When I was pregnant and found out I was having a boy, let me tell you….I was not a happy mama!! I did not want a boy. I didn’t know what to do with a boy. I am a girly girl, and just the thought of a boy and dirt and sports I was so lost….for the rest of my pregnancy. Once he got here though, man was my life complete. Even to this day he is the light of my life. Don’t get me wrong, so are my girls. But they don’t want much to do with me anymore…unless it has to do with fashion, nails or hair go figure! Lil man, well he is still all about me and that’s perfectly fine with me! I know this won’t last forever, so I want to soak it in while I can. J

The one thing that gets me the most is how drastically different boys are from girls. I mean my girls were so mellow and calm, he is so wild and crazy. They were clean and he is definitely not. There are even times I question my sanity due to the things he does. I mean I find myself saying phrases I never in my wildest dreams ever thought I'd hear anyone say. This past week alone I have caught myself saying….

"Don't pee on the cat!"

"Don't draw on your wee wee!"

"Why is your butt colored like a rainbow?!"

"Stop showing your wee wee to the neighbors!"

Come on now, you know I can't make this stuff up!!

Truth is my life revolves around my babies. All 3. It just so happens my 2 year old does things that are so comical it shows me how much to appreciate every moment with them. They are only little for a short time, that the little things (yes, even peeing on the cat) make it all worth remembering! Maybe this will be a perfect story to share at his wedding!!

Be fabulous!

Xoxo, Heather

I Shaved with Conditioner so You Don't Have To!!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 20 Jul 2016 16:45:00 +0000

A few weeks ago, I read an article about making shaving your lady bits a little easier. I'm not quite sure why this has become this huge movement. Going bare, or nearly bare down there has become so popular that seeing a woman in her natural hairy glory is abnormal. We shave, wax, tweeze, and Nair just about every part of our bodies, leaving our eyebrows and lashes to have a lonely party with the hair on our heads.

The article I read was about women thinking it was more hygienic to go bare in their nether regions. It's not. It's simply for aesthetics and can actually cause painful in grown hairs as well as unpleasant infections or razor burn. In this article they gave a list of several options to try to get your lady bits as smooth as Georgia peach.

One of the options was shaving with hair conditioner. Maybe I'm just not that cool, but this thought never crossed my mind. I was genuinely intrigued and happy about not having to spend any money on some fancy new shave cream. Most households have conditioner. I'm going to go out in a limb and assume that most people wash their hair from time to time, which made this personal challenge a no brainer.

Let me tell you this. It was fabulous! No pulling. No razor burn. Nothing unpleasant to report. Use a small pea sized amount and handle your lady business. The process feels a little like slicing through butter with a warm knife. After the amazement at the ease of this new process, you shock yourself back to reality with closing your pores with cold water. You can use a cool wash cloth, but I'm a rebel and just turned the shower to cold for 5-10 seconds before hopping out.

Using this method, the hair didn't grow back any slower, but there were no ingrown hairs or razor bumps to complain about. Overall, it was fairly pleasant and before heading to the beach, I'll likely use this method again to keep things less offensive for the other beach goers. As always...

Stop yelling at me...please,

An Open Letter to All the Moms of the Children Lost at Pulse Night Club

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 13 Jun 2016 14:22:00 +0000

I call them children, because they are your children. You may have carried them within your body for nine months, on your hip for several years, or walked beside them through life when their biological mothers couldn’t. You knew these men and women like no other person could and loved them unconditionally. In their last moments of life, they may have reached out to you wanting your comfort, because no one could comfort them in their time of fear like their mothers.

Mothers are nurturers. You are the ones that kiss the pain of a skinned knee away. You are the ones that argued for your child to be accepted as who they are. You are the ones who have stayed up late nights wondering if they were OK when you put them to bed with a fever. Mothers are the givers of the best hugs, and the ones who can tell all of your hurts by hearing a simple “hello” when you answer the phone.

In this tragic time, I look at you and wonder what you must be going through in these days, hours, minutes and seconds of this horrific act that took your babies away. There are people on social media that are saying terrible things about your children, but I hope that you don’t see it. I hope your hearts are inundated with the love, support, and prayers that are coming from around the world. I hope that you can find some solace in the togetherness of the millions that are rallying around you and your lost children.

The man who committed this act does not deserve for his name to be known. Instead, we need to only focus on the names of your children. It was you who suffered one of the greatest losses a parent could ever face, and it’s your children’s names that need to be shared repeatedly and remembered. Edward Sotomayor Jr., Stanley Almodovar III, Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, Juan Ramon Guerrero, Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, Kimberly Morris, Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, Darryl Roman Burt II, Deonka Deidra Drayton, Alejandro Barrios Martinez, Anthony Luiz Laureanodisla, Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, Amanda Alvear, Martin Benitez Torres, Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, Mercedez Marisol Flores, Xavier Emmanuel Serrano, Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, Oscar A Aracena-Montero, Enrique L. Rios Jr.. Though all of the names have not yet been released, it is still important to honor those that have been confirmed. They deserve to have a voice, and their voices deserve to be heard.

For all the mother’s still awaiting news on your child, I wish that our prayers and thoughts were enough to abate the fear and pain you and your family must be feeling. I know there needs to be action, but what I don’t know is what action needs to be taken. So for now, while the world grieves with the city of Orlando, and the families directly affected by this tragedy, know that we understand you are grieving a loss that no parent should ever have to face. As one mother to many, my heart hurts for you.

Stop yelling at me, please
~J

The Inevitable Acceptance of Rape Culture as a Parent

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 07 Jun 2016 19:50:00 +0000

Something devastating hit me while I was driving back to work from my lunch break. I drove past this car lot full of cars with their brightly painted windows displaying the down payment price. I saw a cute little red car that looked like an Easter egg, and thought to myself how my daughter would probably like a car like that because it would remind her of Deadpool. Just as fast as I had that thought, I immediately had the thought about how I had failed to teach her about being pulled over at night. I didn’t tell her that she’s not supposed to pull over on a dark country road, because not all officers are actually officers. Because not all cop cars are actually cop cars. Because not all men who wear blue are there to protect and serve. I didn’t tell her that pulling over on a dark road for flashing blue lights could also mean she’s in a position to be sexually assaulted.

Now, this isn’t a police bashing post, so untwist your panties. This is a reality post. How many of us women have been told to pull over in a well-lit area? Several years ago in the state that we live, there was a man going around in an old police car that he purchased at an auction, raping women that he would pull over. The police at the time released a statement advising women NOT to pull over for unmarked police cars on isolated roads. The bad guys were wearing the good guys’ outfit, and creating chaos. This realization, that I hadn’t told my daughter to find a well-lit, well populated area to pull over to reduce her chances of being raped by someone disguised as one of the good guys filled me with a sense of urgency to right this wrong.

I don’t think I am the only parent that has had these “is my daughter prepared to enter the world unguarded” moments. The shift to accepting rape culture by parents is so gradual that you don’t even realize it is happening. When your daughters are little, you laugh a little uncomfortably about the old beating them off with a stick compliment of your daughter’s beauty. That harmless comment is step one of the infiltration of rape culture. We talk to them in the preschool and school age years about boys being rough when they play, excusing the scrapes and bruises these boys cause by playing too rough. By the time our girls reach the teen years, we are teaching them about dressing modestly, as to not attract too much undesired attention. We teach them about ignoring cat calls, and walking fast and with a purpose when around unknown men. We teach them from the time they start developing parts of what makes them inherently female, they are to be fearful of anyone with a penis that they don’t know.

Just when our girls are comfortable with the Stranger Danger memo, we throw them this curve ball…you are more likely to be raped by someone you know. Yes, it sucks. Yes, it’s true, and most women have been warned of this multiple times. So, if I myself, can’t go out into the world unguarded, how the h*ll am I supposed to prepare my daughter? I shouldn’t have to sign my daughter up for MMA classes, so she will know how to get out from underneath someone who is forcing himself on her. MMA should not be a prerequisite for college, but in my house, for my daughter, it is. I shouldn’t have to spend time teaching her how to properly hold her open cup or container while at a high school or college party, because guys should know that she is not some thing to be taken without permission by slipping her a little GHB. I shouldn’t have to tell her that if she sets her drink down, even for a second out of eyesight, that she needs to pour it out. I also shouldn’t have to tell her that if she is being attacked that she needs to be sure to scratch and bite to collect as much DNA material as possible, and leave visible marks, so someone will believe her story.

My daughter is a smart, funny, beautiful girl, who I am afraid to let go out into this world alone. So, do I accept rape culture? Yes. It is a real thing. Rape culture exists. No matter how many feminists blog about how it is unacceptable, we all accept it’s existence because we alone cannot change it. We women have to survive it. We parents have to raise our girls to be aware of it. We parents NEED to raise our boys to value women as people, and not things to be taken or had because “playing rough” has been acceptable all of their lives. We as a society need to raise better men than Brock Turner, his boys club father and old school judge. This is no longer a “boys will be boys’ society. We women deserve to take up space and feel safe while doing it!

Stop Yelling at Me! ~J

Photo credit: vagenda

Reasons Religions Suck and Why You Should Hate Them

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 04 Jun 2016 12:25:00 +0000

The reasons religions suck is almost too many to count and list out while you all wait with baited breath. Let me start by saying, religion has caused wars and hatred throughout the entire world. When Christianity was started, it was considered a cult. Can you even imagine being part of something so new, and so radical that you would be considered part of a cult? Well, imagine it my dear! Christianity is still the new kid on the block as far as religions go, but let’s talk about the real culprit of all this terrorism and hatred. I hope that last line helped you figure out that I had you open this blog article under a rouse.

I know, I know, I’m a terrible person. Blame it on my religion. I’m pretty sure one of the commandments tells me to lie…or not. It’s a sad state of affairs in America, when people are more apt to read about something that is negative or bashing one group of people over the next. People that share these memes and negative stories “calling out religion” aren’t any better than the ones condemning Atheists, Agnostics and the LGBTQ community.

Here’s a little anecdote about religion, this will be a short post because the attention span of most folks reading on social media is limited to say the least. Two grown men walk into a local watering hole. Both men order whiskey straight. Now, the man with the brown eyes (did I say they had eyes? Well they do, in case I didn’t make that clear. Don’t want to offend the eyeless) drinks five glasses of his favorite whiskey. Brown eyed guy starts singing along to the music playing and gets up to dance a jig to The Devil Went Down to Georgia. He’s as happy as a clam, always is when he gets drunk. The guy with the blue eyes drinks five glasses of the same whiskey. Blue eyes guy become belligerent and tries to fight the barkeep and everyone that walks in the door. And before anyone says anything, they both had a fabulous day and have a fabulous life with 2.5 kids at home and a supermodel wife. So, no, one didn’t have a bad day and the other is out celebrating. So, now that we cleared that up, who do we blame in this little scenario?

The ALOCHOL!!!!

No. I have never once heard anyone blame the alcohol for existing and people choosing to consume it. Or people blaming the alcohol on how it personally effects them and their, or their partner’s behaviors. People, blame the person for their level of intoxication. Old blue eyes knows that when he gets drunk, he usually winds up getting thrown out of the bar or arrested, but he chose to drink anyway.

So, given the scenario above, why do people of the interwebs insist on blaming religions for terrorism, general hatred and closemindedness? I don’t know any religion that teaches these terrible things. I’ve never in my entire Christian life been to a church where they have told their congregation to hate anyone. Maybe at Westboro church, that could be their mantra, but hey, I don’t know their lives and I don’t pretend to know their walk with God. All I’m saying is, before you call yourself being a truth exposer, expose the right thing. Religion only teaches people to love their neighbor and to live like their higher power would. It also teaches us not to judge. I don’t judge anyone for the religion they practice, or don’t practice. My walk with Christ, is mine and mine alone. Your walk is yours. Let’s not hate the religions, but try to show people what love and acceptance really means. Live your life as an example, not in condemnation of others who don’t think as you do.

Stop Yelling At Me…

Breaking Up with Your A1

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 25 May 2016 00:40:00 +0000

Yeah, I totally said A1. I don't even know what it means really, aside from some pretty tasty sauce that you put on meats. All I know is, it will embarrass my teenager and that's enough for me.

So, here's the deal, I have like 3 best friends. Like legitimate, you can live on my couch in sweat pants crying into your bucket of fried chicken after your divorce type of best friends. Everyone knows that even in the world of multiple besties, there's an order to which you live your perspective lives and the balance is a delicate one. Ok, that last part is a lie. My friends are not 15, we're in our thirties and we've seen some sh*t. We don't have time to chat all day or even text once a month, but we're the best of friends anyway because grown women don't need you to hold their hand daily to know you'll be there for them. Anyway, I'm off on a tangent. Back to my A1 (sauce?) I'll get the saying right eventually. This woman is my bottom chick, my sister from another mister, my female soul mate. When I fill out emergency contact forms I debate between her and my own mother. In all honesty, she likely knows my allergies and blood type better than her own.

I won't go into detail about my sauce, A1, that is, because it's really none of your business on why we aren't speaking. We have had instances like this before. You don't stay friends with someone for as long as we have without the yelling, screaming, crying, and hugging that goes along with it. So, did we really break up?! Likely not, but it sure still feels like it. It's been several months since I've been able to just text a random thought or called and laughed endlessly about something stupid that no one would understand but us...like that one time in Arizona and the neighbors, lort!

The thing about our friendship, all of our friendships are, we will always find our way back to each other. Even when I can't physically reach her, or any of them, I know I am loved endlessly by 3 of the most fierce women I know. At the end of the day, my glass bottle of A1 would move mountains for me and having that knowledge will have to be enough until the tides push us back together again.

I'll have friends that come and go. I'll have good friends and great friends, but let's face it; these newer friends will never be "there's a new thing called a Brazilian, let's wax each other's hoo ha's" kind of close! So, to my proverbial sauce, I love you, I miss you, and I'll always be here.

Stop yelling at me...please!

A Woman Found

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 29 Mar 2016 03:40:00 +0000

A Woman Found

Who was she? Sitting in class as a thirty-something mother of three was not her idea of something fun to do. The auburn haired mother questioned the last five years of her existence. If it wasn’t for her children, Jessica would have moved to Italy after her divorce. Why didn’t she? Why did she have so many damn questions about her own life? Get it together, Jessica, the fair skinned woman demanded of her-self.

The question of why not, never left her mind. Why did she stay in this Podunk town? The ex-husband that helped her create these beautiful little people was nowhere to be found. Was it family? No, her family rarely came to visit, and when they did it just ended in shouting matches and name calling. Sitting in that class listening to the instructor drone on about what makes a person who they are made Jessica restless. Suddenly, she saw her possibilities become greater. She wanted to be daring.

That night after dinner, homework, and bedtime routines, Jess soaked in her garden tub. The tub she fought so hard to keep, in the house she had built while married to George. He was a miserable person, and they had a miserable marriage. In fact, shortly after they married, Jessica couldn’t recall why she wanted to marry him in the first place. The question of ‘why’ nagged at her. Biting her stained red lip, she thought, ‘why not?’

Jessica was free of strings, no real friends to speak of, no family. Just Jess, and her three kids. Adventure didn’t need to wait. The next morning the single mother created posters and took out ads to sell all of her belongings. Her life was hers, kids or not, she was going to live life to its fullest. Within a weeks’ time, everything Jessica owned was sold. The children were permitted to keep one toy they could carry on the flight and whatever electronic devices the wanted as long as it could fit in a suitcase. It seemed like the most reckless thing a mother could do, but she didn’t care. Everything was paid for. Flights were booked, a home was rented, and a job was lined up. Italy would be their new home.

When things settled into a normal routine, Jessica stood on her back porch, coffee in hand enjoying the view of her new home. The smell in the air was like nothing she had ever known. Learning Italian was a challenge, but the children picked up quickly. Jessica would call herself lucky to be able to order a meal without sounding like a toddler, but when she met Greyson, she was doing just that. Ordering her lunch, speaking Italian like a toddler.

Greyson was handsome. Not handsome in the Harlequin Romance sense of the word, but handsome. In fact, everything about him seemed quite average; brown hair, brown eyes, slight build, with a chipped side tooth. The chemistry she felt was confusing. He was not her type, but every average thing about him was absolutely perfect to her. It didn’t hurt that he thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Though Jessica couldn’t speak Italian fluently, she understood everything he said. Working as an English teacher with a classroom full of Italian kids will make anyone understand a new language quickly. What the mother couldn’t get over was how Greyson looked at her. He made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. Their meet ups at the local bistro started ending with walks back to her door. Greyson was the perfect gentleman and never dared to ask to come inside.

Their regularly scheduled meeting day was interrupted by an ill child. Jessica’s youngest son had not been feeling well and she couldn’t bring herself to leave him with a sitter. Looking at the clock in her sparsely furnished living room, she let a sigh escape her lips. For the first time in a long time, she felt something for a man. She found herself wondering what he was doing and who he was doing it with. As she checked her phone for the fifth time, a knock at her door startled her. Brows furrowed above her piercing green eyes. Trying to maneuver her sleeping child off of her lap, the mother slowly slid off the couch raising her arms in success.

When she peered through the peep hole it was too dark to see. Once again, she remembered she needed a light bulb. Cautiously cracking the door, a familiar face emerged drenched with rain. Greyson stood with a Tupperware of soup in his hand.

“I wanted to make sure your little boy had some homemade soup. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.” The nervous man smiled, water dripping from his lashes.

Delighted shock crossed Jessica’s face. “You didn’t have to go through any trouble. I thought we agreed to meet next week.”

Suddenly feeling a sense of urgency, Greyson stepped forward and met the beauty’s bold red lips with a kiss. Jessica stepped out into the rain to fully meet his lips, shutting the door behind her. The warm water quickly drenched her short auburn hair, as his unmistakably average hands brushed over her hips widen by child birth. He always told her how much he loved her hips. As the passion grew, clothes were shed as they made their way to the back of the wraparound porch. Even in the rain his hands were rough. The moonlight illuminated all the parts of her that her ex-husband criticized. While trying to cover herself, Greyson would slowly remove her hand and kiss every stretch mark, every dimple that made her feel unattractive. With every kiss he revealed why he loved those parts about her.

“You hide your beauty, my love. Don’t hide from me. I see you, I want you. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I love those marks, because as a mother, you love your children fiercely. You earned them. I love your hips, they housed life and brought it into this world. I love your thighs, they’re powerful, beautiful and open just for me. I love every part of you, because I love you.” Greyson spoke with passion and truth.

Relaxing with every word, Jessica sat on her patio wall and allowed her perfectly average man to enter her. Thrusting slowly in unison she let everything negative fall away. On that porch, she was beautiful. She was powerful. She was his.

Hope you enjoyed the read!

~ J

The Real Reason I'm Always Tired

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 17 Jan 2016 22:00:00 +0000

     I'm tired. I'm tired all the time. The only time I have energy is after my morning coffee has kicked in, and even then it's only for about four hours. I suffer from what many moms suffer from, the superwoman syndrome that has plagued society for the past 20-30 years. We come from a generation where it was drilled in our heads that we women could literally do anything and everything. Maybe our parents had good intentions with these 'I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar' speeches, but the truth is, we can't do it all.
     Doing it all is darn near impossible, and everyday we run ourselves ragged trying to be Super Mom, Super Wife and Super Friend. Through all of these Super titles, we lose ourselves. We mom's wake up at the butt crack of dawn to prepare for the day, cooking, putting away last night's laundry, and packing everyone's lunches. We schedule everyone's appointments, including our husbands. We work really hard at our jobs away from the house, only to come back home and work some more. Who's going to clean up the house when your offspring do a half tail job of getting their chores done? Don't look at dad, he's tired from working all day.
     Now this is not to say that dad's don't help, because they do. This is to say that mom's feel the need to prove themselves by doing more and feeling guilty about asking for help. I know several bad-ace mama's that go to work daily, go to school, and manage to keep their kids alive and not appearing to be neglected. I'm not sure if we even know how to work off of a full tank of energy. Even in high school, we were doing too much and not taking enough time for ourselves. I remember, running track, working and still staying on top of my homework and making time for friends. When track was over, I spent endless hours at cheer practice and camps before our focused switched to games. I can honestly say that I don't vividly recollect having down time after the age of 10.
   When people ask why I'm tired, sometimes I just reply with "I have three kids," but the truth is, I have three kids. I have a full time job. I have a husband. I have an internship. I have graduate school. I have learned to function on an insufficient amount of sleep because I was told I could have it all. I believe I CAN have it all (well most of it), and though I run myself past empty on a daily basis, one day I won't have to. I will finish school, it's temporary. You will get through the toddler years, it's temporary. We will learn to take time for ourselves, because life is temporary. So, I say all of this to make the point of finding time for you. Taking time for yourself gives you the mental refresher you need to be fully present in your other relationships. Pull on your active wear and be active. Take a bubble bath. Go for a long walk. Nourish the relationship you have with yourself.

As Always, Stop Yelling At Me Please!

-J

Don't Be "That" Mom...or DO

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 12 Jan 2016 19:27:00 +0000

I get quite tired of all of the Mommy Wars going on. It’s quite strange. We talk about how men are such mean goblins, but most of the things I hear don’t come from the guy in line at the bank, it comes from other women; other moms specifically. I have a few friends that I love dearly who post all of these cool things they do with their kids, and I’m happy they have the time. I have been guilty of unwittingly participating in the Mommy Wars with my comments about them being Martha Stewart or a Stepford Wife.

It wasn’t until an unfiltered, no bull crap friend pointed out all of my mommy judgment, that I finally saw the error in my ways. Yes, a couple of my friends post photos that would make you believe they stand around with a fifties style perfectly pressed dress, and pearls laid gently around their delicate necks. And then there are moms like me, who feel like they deserve a marathon finisher’s medal for keeping the kids alive for another day. Both of these types of moms are fabulous mothers, and I’m not just saying that because I’m the latter of the two.

Let me tell you a secret that some women seem to forget. We are all different people. We were different little girls that grew up into different women, and eventually completely different mothers. I’m going to throw another curve ball at you, buckle your seat belts y’all. Some women do not want kids. I actually said that and I did not spontaneously combust. I have a supervisor who is a great mother to her stepdaughter. If she had her own child, I have no doubt that she would continue to knock motherhood out of the park. Here’s the thing, she has no desire to squeeze a small human out of her lady bits. She also has no desire to parent full time, and you know what? Being a mother means making the best decisions for yourself, your family and your future; she has done that flawlessly.

Motherhood doesn’t come with an instruction manual, and your kids will love you regardless. Stressing out about not cooking a meal daily is just silly. They’ll love you just the same if you let them have a bowl of cereal for dinner every once in a while. You packed their lunch, but it didn’t have fancy cut out sandwiches and veggies, eh, they’re eating aren’t they. Pat yourself on the back for being able to find the energy to pack their lunch instead of yelling “don’t they feed you at school” as they run for the bus, like I do most days. Enjoy the moments you get with your kids, and if anyone wants to start a Mommy War with you, proudly proclaim “THEY’RE STILL ALIVE, AREN’T THEY?!” as you flip them the bird.

As Always, Stop Yelling At Me…please!

- J

Santa and Your Screaming Kid

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 18 Dec 2015 15:25:00 +0000

So, I was talking to my office mate the other day about Santa and everyone's Santa and screaming kid pictures we see on our feeds. I posed the question: Why is this an acceptable thing to do?

It sort of goes against the child's basic instinct, and should go against the parents instinct as well. For some reason every year from the time you sneeze a baby out of your hoo ha, we shove them on some strange mans lap and tell them to like it and smile.

After instilling in them never to go with strangers, we force them upon a stranger's knee while they scream, cry and look completely terrified, wondering why you aren't saving them. Am I the only one that thinks it's weird? Telling a kid to ignore that little thing in the pit of their stomach, that's there to help them sense danger, seems weird to me and confusing. If not for that gut feeling, they may not know when someone or something feels off. Like I said, the feeling is there for a reason. Yes, sometimes, especially in an anxious child, they need to know that the feeling can be wrong from time to time. It still exists to keep you safe.

I've never made my kids do the whole photo with Santa thing because it didn't sit right with me and we didn't really do Santa as a being that would creep down your chimney and instead of robbing you, leave gifts.

In fact, my daughter actually had a very sound and logical point about Santa; if he were a real person, he'd be charged with stalking and breaking and entering. Granted, she said this while I was furiously hurrying out of the bathroom before she scarred my then 5 year old for life, but she had a valid point.

So many parents give Santa the credit for their hard work and to keep thier kids in line throughout the year. I'm here to tell you, Santa is a bit creepy when you think about it, and to make your child sit on his lap may kind of freak them out.

I'm not saying if you want your traditional santa pic that you're doing something wrong. You can do what you want, after all you sneezed them out.

Merry Christmas,

~J~

Sweet Boy, I saw you: A Story from Behind the Front Lines

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 24 Oct 2015 16:02:00 +0000

Oh, sweet boy, you were my unexpected birthday present. I was still a green worker at my county’s social service office when I first met you. How did you end up here on this side of social welfare? You came from a good family, and your parents had the multiple degrees to prove it. Your mother was a Nutritionist, and your father a Psychologist. At one point your parents were both licensed and practicing in their fields. I guess drugs have unlimited boundaries, because of all the children I have had to remove, you and your sisters had a good start.

On the day I met you, you had no idea about the celebration I had at the office that morning, or that I didn’t get to kiss my kids goodnight. When I met you, your world was being pulled from underneath you. Nothing you could have done in your life would have prepared you for what was coming. Nothing in my life could have prepared me. I related too much. You were the same age as my daughter. Your sisters, the same age of my sons. In social work there has to be an emotional disconnect, but you sneaked through a small crack that I did not realize was there. You were the first chink in my metaphorical emotional armor, and I love you for it. You changed me.

When I met you, I had just finished putting the pieces together, but I pray that you never do. Your grandmother called in a report, and it had been the third or fourth report in a short period of time. I thought you were homeless. I thought no one loved you. I thought you were hungry and dirty. I thought you needed to be saved, so did the judge that ordered an immediate pick up. It didn’t matter that my friend baked me my favorite red velvet cupcakes and decorated my office. It didn’t matter that my own children would not see me until the next morning. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know if I would have the gas money to get back. It didn’t matter that I had nearly 70 investigations that had not been touched, and three more had been placed on my desk that morning. I was to save you, sweet boy. You.

Your grandmother called several times while I drove the four hours to come and pick you up. The county you were in, did not have the workers to spare to meet me halfway. Your grandmother directed me to wait in a gravel lot about five minutes from where you were. She went on to explain that your father was there and she was not sure how he would react when I had to remove you. This was unusual. I called for a police escort and headed to save you from your deplorable conditions.

When I arrived, I was overwhelmed and confused. The house that stood before me could be considered a mansion. There were four new cars in the driveway and your grandmother met me and the officer outside. We walked into the house to find you and your younger sister sitting at the table in Catholic school uniforms. You were clean, well fed and healthy. Dinner was still cooking; I can remember the smell. Your mother was there. She did not look as well. She had sores on her face and hands from all the scratching. Her hair was oily and stringy. Her clothes were ill fitting and her feet were dirty from walking barefoot.

Upon seeing this scene, I was angry. I was more than angry, more than livid. You did not know I was coming to forever alter your lives by the will of your grandmother. Your mother needed help, as did your father. Drugs had gotten a hold of them and turned them into shells of their former well educated selves. Your grandmother couldn’t bear to continue to see your mother suffer. She knew that the only way to get your mother help was to create her rock bottom. Your grandmother knew, you three beautiful children were your mothers Achilles heel. But, I want you to know that your mother loved you fiercely. She did the best she could in her fog to ensure you had a good life. She took you where she knew you would be protected when she left you for hours or days at a time. At some point she gained enough clarity to get you three to safety. Please know she was doing her best. Drugs are powerful, and your mother and father had to fight a battle against a demon they never saw coming.

When I explained to your mother what was happening, she sobbed. Her shoulders shook with an unimaginable pain, she looked smaller than a child in that moment. Your sisters came out the door and immediately started to wail, though your mother tried to contain her tears for them. You were inside helping your grandmother gather totes of clothing. You were strong when you emerged. Placing the tote in the garage, you hugged your mother and kissed her goodbye. You told your sisters that everything would be ok and tried to calm them. Your youngest sister clung to your mother’s waist with her legs wrapped tight. She locked around your frail mother’s neck and wouldn’t let go. I reached for her, but she wouldn’t come. Your mother had to pry her off of her to hand her to me. Her neck was now red where your sister clung for protection.

The wailing was now uncontrollable from your mother and sisters. You strong, sweet boy didn’t shed a tear. Your hugged your sisters tight and directed them to get into the car. You told them I was nice and they were safe. You calmed their fears. I offered up my birthday cupcakes and your sisters eagerly accepted. You sat in the third row quiet, long brown hair in your eyes watching your sisters relax. I explained the best I could what was happening and where you were going. You only had one concern, “Will I get to stay with my sisters?” The answer was the best I could give, “I will fight for you to stay together.”

Silence fell over the mini-van as darkness fell. The littlest blue eyed girl was hungry. After making a quick stop to get food, those beautiful sisters of yours were fast asleep. You held out sweet boy. Just when I thought I had made it through, I heard your quiet sobs from the dark back seat. I turned the music up a little more. Not to mask your crying, but to mask my own. You were so strong for so long, and when you broke, I broke too. How long did you have to be the strong one? How many times did you have to play this role?

When we made it to the shelter, I got my answer. It was late, the little ones were still sleepy, but you were alert. You knew your job was not through. When we entered the shelter things became very formal, and you adjusted. The youngest sister had a hard time sitting still, so you wrangled her and held her next to you. The shelter workers asked questions I didn’t know the answer to, but you did. You gave them everyone’s birth date, allergies and medication with dosage information. At that moment I knew, you had been the adult in your house for a very long time.

Your grandmother called me the next morning to make sure you made it to your destination safely. She asked me an important question, and there, my fight began. Your grandmother asked if she could gain custody of your younger sister. My heart raced, my face felt hot, and I had to work to control the tone of my voice. “No, ma’am. You cannot have the middle child. If you take one, you take them all.” I was yelled at and berated. I gave her the information on the upcoming hearing, and she gave me the information for her attorney that would be fighting for her to get her wishes.

I fought for you as I said I would, since you could not fight for yourself. I fought for your mother, as she was too far gone to realize her mother wanted to separate you three. I fought for you, as I would fight for my own children. You stayed in the shelter for six weeks, but you were together. I kept my promise to you sweet boy, and I visited you often. Your grandmother eventually took you all back into her home. Through it all, you remained strong for your sisters. I hope your life has a happy ending my strong, sweet boy. You deserve the world.

My Kid is “That Kid,” and I’m OK with It!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 24 Oct 2015 13:56:00 +0000

Everyone knows “that kid,” or has had some sort of encounter in the general public with them. This is the child that throws a tantrum over the smallest thing or is a master of manipulation. My kid is the latter. He’s the king, or I should say prince of manipulation.

This sweet child of mine has been “that kid” since he was yanked out of my baby sized incision. He’s the only one of my children that came out being nosey. Most babies are born with their eyes squeezed shut, screaming at the top of their tiny lungs. My youngest came out, eyes wide open looking around the room and didn’t make a sound until the doctor gave him a few swift pats to the behind.

Before my youngest started school, no one knew he was “that kid.” It was kind of a family secret. He was always well behaved in public and could professionally flirt with grown women by the age of six months. If only I could have recorded his reaction to pretty women when he was an infant. I should have known that sweet batting of the eye lashes would mean trouble in the future.

Kindergarten rolled around before we knew it, and I quickly learned that my child was “that kid” outside of the home when we weren’t around. I had a total of six parent-teacher conferences before the first quarter was over. The question was always the same. “Is he this much trouble for you at home?” You would think he was swinging from the rafters, but he wasn’t.

My handsome brown eyed boy was and is a refuser of work. I’m always complimented on his manners and respect, but he politely and respectfully declines to do anything. He will give the most experienced teacher a frustratingly long run for their money until they figure him out. I was told once that, “I’ve been teaching 25 years and I have never had a child like yours!” I would have been insulted, but she seemed so genuinely frazzled, that I felt slightly bad for the smirk I allowed to slip onto my face.

Yes, my kid is “that kid” and I’m Ok with it. I have learned to apologize before the first conference is called. There will be a conference. There’s always a conference. The reason I’m OK with my child exhausting his teachers, is not because I’m some crazy mommy monster.

I’m OK with my kid being “that kid,” because he’s smart. To convince college educated teachers that he can’t read, or doesn’t know how to do simple addition is amazing to me. Yes, I should be mortified, and crawl under a rock, but I won’t. My son, had his first grade teacher completely convinced that he could not read, at all. She met with me several times and thought I was the world’s worst mother when I told her, to tell him to stop it. Did I mention he can cry on cue?

This crying bit is what got him out of doing work. He works up these large, almost cartoon like tears. His little face turns red, and looks sadly pitiful. It’s all an act. He’s quite good, and I’m sure one day he just might win an Oscar for his performance. Right now, I’ll be happy for him to get to third grade.

This year, we have already had two conferences. It’s always the same story, with the same question at the end. To all of the teachers that get him in your class, I’m sorry. He really is a bright kid. He’s bored. Manipulating you is a game to him. He will always be “that kid,” and I’ve come to accept it. So, take this as my entire school career apology for him. All the best, “that kid’s mom!”

7 Steps to a Better Night's Sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 18 Oct 2015 02:07:00 +0000

Most mom's today carry this superhuman label. Being a mom in today's society is rough. Between "Mom Wars" and Cosmopolitan's latest article on "How to Keep Your Man," no wonder us moms are swimming in mom guilt while we try to conceal our dark circles under our eyes before Polly Perfect next door sees. We have soccer practice, ballet lessons, homework, dinner, laundry, and a full time job. If you find time for a mommy war between all of that, then kudos to you. Also, you deserve to be metaphorically blown up. The women I know, are so focused on how to stay afloat, that there's no time to focus on other women and how their families are run. After the blur of the day lightening bolts past you, it's time for that elusive thing, we mom's once knew as sleep. Follow these 7 steps and you too can have a good night's sleep, without that whole bottle of Pinot stashed in your nightstand drawer (just me?!).

Step One: Delegate!

There is no hard fast rule that says mom's must be the be all, end all of their children's lives. Guess what. You had a partner help you create these little replica's of you. One or two of your little ones may even resemble the person that helped create them. Look, I know it's hard, but your partner can help. If you don't have a partner, you likely have an older child (one usually comes before the other). This is a great time to teach them responsibility and accountability. It also teaches your sweet babies that it's OK to ask for help. Moms, (whispering) it's OK to ask for help. Try it! You may feel uncomfortable at first, but, the pay off will be worth it. No significant other, or older child, try a grandparent or close friend. Really, avenues for help are everywhere, just ask.

Step Two: Find Time for You

Moms, why do we do this? We have got to make time for ourselves. Even if it's at the butt crack of dawn, momma needs a little down time. Guilt free! I saw you trying to sneak in that mom guilt. Back away slowly. If you aren't taking care of you, then how will anyone else know that's something that you need. The time you take for yourself could be 30 minutes of uninterrupted quiet time before the alarms go off in the morning. Getting to enjoy your entire cup of coffee, before tiny people are pulling at your robe can be your saving grace for the day. For some people, going for a walk or run alone is all they need. Maybe you don't have time to run a marathon, but 15 minutes is all you need to get in a quick jog. Your heart and your stress level will thank you.

Step Three: Let Go of Perfection

I hate to burst anyone's rainbow colored, glitter filled bubble but, you're not perfect. In fact, no one is perfect, and it's OK. Really, it is. It's 9PM and it still looks like Hot Wheels cars and Barbie and friends were trying to reenact Fast and Furious in your living room? It's ok to leave it until morning or better yet, leave it for after school. No one will tell, you're the boss and can do what you want. Oh, the perks of being an adult. Dinner does not have to come from Pintrest or from The Pioneer Woman. If Mrs. Drummond wants to come over and cook your family a meal, by golly, you better run and answer the door, but you don't have to be her. I'm sure even at the pioneer house, sometimes it's just a chicken nugget night. Maybe, just maybe, coloring outside the lines is fun. If being a tulip in a field of roses means you get more sleep, be a dang tulip!

Step Four: Establish a Bedtime Routine

No, Sally can't get water for the fifth time in the last hour. Set clear bedtime routines and boundaries for your children. Educate yourself on how many hours of sleep each child needs per night and set their bedtimes accordingly. If you decide bedtime is 7:30 for Sally, let bedtime be at 7:30. Get your little one in the bath at least 45 minutes before bedtime. Let them snuggle with you to get out all of their kisses, hugs, and bonding time before bed. If you know they will ask for water, give them a glass before bed or keep a small cup with water on their night stand. Unless they have a medical need, they will be OK without water past bedtime. Once they know you aren't budging from your new routine, quiet nights are ahead.

Step Five: Find Out What Relaxes You

It's the end of the night and you still have a million things on your mind. Did the trash get taken to the curb? Did the water bill get paid? Was that a murderer outside of my house, or the wind blowing the darn tree branch again? The ability to turn off our minds was not a gift that the universe saw fit to give us women. While you're on your overthinking marathon, think about what relaxes you. Every one has something that relaxes them to the point of feeling like your body is the consistency of Jello. It can be a nice bubble bath, paired with a good book. It could be a glass of wine or mind blowing sex. Whatever it might be, find a way to make it into something you can do nightly before bed. Establishing your own bedtime routine can be just as important as establishing a bedtime routine for your children.

Step Six: Have Sex

Did I just say that out loud? Yes, yes I did. I know, you're thinking, I'm too exhausted to even think about sex. Here's the thing, not only will your significant other be perfectly happy with you wanting more sex, but it will make you feel better. Sex releases these fabulous things called endorphins. These things can help elevate your mood, which in turn will make you less stressed. If you're less stressed, you sleep better. So, though you may be tired from the day's activities, don't throw sex by the wayside. Human's need sex, moms are humans; therefore, moms need sex. See how that works?

Step Seven: Allow Yourself Time to Sleep

Don't jam pack your schedule with your children's activities. They are little people, they need downtime too. They need you to model how to do that. Limit their activities to one or two activities a year, with none overlapping. Sally wants to dance, well dance lasts all school year. Sally can't join another activity until dance is over. I know it can be difficult, but this will allow you and your little ones the rest they need. Activities take up time, that time is usually homework time. If homework time gets pushed back, then bedtime gets pushed back. If their bedtime gets pushed back, then your bedtime gets pushed back. Eliminate the desire to overfill your child's schedule. This will allow for you to keep your schedule, and get the rest you deserve.

Overall, the key to getting a good nights sleep is asking for help when needed, and not overloading yourself. Everyone deserves to wake up well rested in the morning. Hopefully, by following these steps you will be among the elite few well rested moms.

First published here: http://community.today.com/parentingteam/post/7-steps-to-a-better-nights-sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 17 Oct 2015 23:08:00 +0000

This meme and it's sister memes bother me. I am not saying that real mean don't like curves, but I do feel that these posts are only furthering the need for women to go after one another. Really, when was the last time we saw a man posting something like this on their social media page? There's another one of these floating around that says something like, I'm not a size 0, because I'm not a twelve year old boy. That's not the exact wording, but close enough for you to catch my drift. Well folks, I am a size 0. Most of the female world that I've come into contact with, don't like me before they even get to know me. I have always been thin. I have three children and guess what? I'm still thin. It took me a long time to love the body that God gave me because of statements like the ones that are being shared all over social media in hopes to make thicker women feel more empowered. I am all for empowering women, just not at the expense of another woman's self esteem. Unfortunately, from the time we break out of our mother's lady bits, we are forced into the "pretty box." How silly is it that from the moment we take our first breaths, and our parents count our little fingers and toes, the next worry is, the little girls beauty. We are trained to value our appearance, our beauty, from other peoples standards of beauty. We value this beauty over intelligence and other valuable traits. Why is that? Women of all sizes should take offense to these memes, not because it is devaluing the woman without curves, but because it's devaluing all women. Who we are is not tied into our size, weather we wear make up, or if we like men or women. A person's value should only be determined by that individual person.

Black Mother of 3

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 01 Dec 2014 23:09:00 +0000

     There are many more important topics that should be up for discussion right now, and I understand that. The topic of race seems to be a hot button issue in recent days, due to the shooting of Michael Brown, and the subsequent decision to not prosecute his shooter Officer Darren Wilson. I don't know much about the circumstances of this case and I don't pretend to. A good friend of mine once asked why I chose to live in ignorant bliss. My answer was and is still simple; why choose to see all of the bad in the world or go look for it. I see ugly on a regular basis, I don't have to search it out.

    The purpose of me writing this is to show my friends and others, what is behind the smile and silly nature that I have. I will share things in this post that I haven't shared with much of anyone. For those of you who happen upon this and don't know me personally, I hope this helps you to understand what it's like to be in my skin on an average day, and I pray that I articulate my true feelings well enough for you to walk away a better person for knowing what I have shared.

     I am a black mother of three. I grew up in a predominately white neighborhood, where I first heard the word "nigger." Don't get your panties in a bunch quite yet. It was my stepfather that said the word to me, in one of the many conversations we would later have about being a black child. I believe his exact words were "if anyone ever calls you a nigger at that school, you have permission to punch them right in the mouth!" I didn't quite understand why I was getting permission to hit someone, nor did I understand the true value of the word.

     I never heard the word that year, but it did come. No one said it at me, so to speak, but it was said in my presence by white children and even more so as an adult. You see, because I grew up in a predominately white neighborhood (and I mean like really white, like you could count the black people on one hand in the entire school), I spoke like they did. I behaved like they did. I listened to the same music, wore the same clothes, liked the same boys. Because of this, the word was thrown around and they would look at me after and say "no offense" or "you don't count, because you're not really black." The first time I heard it, it hurt me to my core and it still does. I don't like it when anyone uses the word. Seriously, you could be so black that you've created a new color, and I still would cringe internally at the word. Why do I have such a visceral reaction to a word that does not describe me or anyone I know? The word was used years before I was born to humiliate and dehumanize a whole group of people, a group that happens to be part of my ancestry. Think about that the next time you let that word slip. No one is less than, and that word has been made to mean just that.

     As a black mother of three, I have heard pretty awful things. I worry about things that other mothers don't worry about. I also have a strength that is unmatched because of these awful things. A typical day out and about usually entails some stares or dirty looks. The people that are doing it may not even be aware of the expression on their faces, some may. Either way, it happens. I have been asked straight out, the following questions, and statements. They did not sugarcoat for me or my children, so I won't sugarcoat for you. "Do they all have the same daddy?" "Why did you have so many kids?" This one is most recent, by my sons 1st grade teacher. "I know you have a bunch of other kids at home, so maybe one of them can help with his homework." "Why aren't they all the same shade?" "Its a shame black men don't stick around. You could use some help." "I know that one has to have a different dad because he's not real black like your other ones." You get my point, I don't think I have to give more examples. All I can say is people can be rude. I don't condemn a whole race, because some people of that same color are ignorant.

     As a black mother of three, these are some of the thing I have heard. "I don't know why they have so many if they can't afford them." That was said while I walked through J.C. Penny. Once as my toddler (at the time) started to throw a tantrum I heard "I bet she doesn't even know who that poor kids father is." I have even heard "she has a Louis Vuitton, but I'm sure she has a food stamp card too" while I was in line to check out at Wal-Mart. People really should learn how to be better whisperers. Were my feelings hurt in these situations? Absolutely, and everything wanted to boil over. I wanted to yell and tell them how ignorant they were, but I didn't. I pretended I heard nothing and went on about my way. As a black woman I often feel I don't have the right to display my outrage in a very therapeutic yelling session at the wrongdoers. If I yell at them, it will only continue to perpetuate the stereotype as an angry black woman. Some people may feel that is me being overly conscious of what other people think, but I have seen and learned that when it comes to this particular subject, you must pick your battles.

     When I was younger I learned from the words my mother didn't say. I learned from the actions I saw her taking. I learned from the conversations I overheard or the hushed comments between whomever she was speaking to. My mother demanded respect from us, inside and outside of the home and one phrase that she would repeat throughout my childhood was "y'all can't be acting like these white kids in the store." That may not be the exact phasing, but it was very close to that. When people see toddlers throwing fits in the store, the reactions from others are different between the races. Most of the time if the child is white, people may giggle or smile, saying something along the lines of "she's got her hands full." When it's a child of color throwing the tantrum, the reaction is markably different and you get comments like I mentioned above.

     These situations occur for a lot of different people of color. The phasing may be different, but the hurt feelings are still the same. I've heard similar things said about Hispanic families, but what hurts my feelings most about that, is people are far less discrete. I've noticed a lot of people that are so bold as to be rude, are saying it loud enough for the people they are discussing to hear them. Here's something those people may not realize, some of those Hispanic families speak and/or understand English, so they hear you. They may not react, but they hear you. Here's a thought though people, stop being jerks. If you wouldn't say it about you own race in the same situation, don't say it about another. If it means you have to ask yourself that before speaking, then ask yourself.

    As a mother of two black boys, I have to be extra vigilant in making sure they understand how their presence can make people feel threatened, while at the same time helping them understand they have value. I have to have a a conversation with them when they get a little taller about how they will "fit the description" most of the time, and how to react when they do. There's a post going around social media right now on that topic. Though the post is coming from black mothers, other races of color are effected as well. Sometimes the reason for being pulled over is because you're brown and the sad truth is, if you don't act in a manor that is completely compliant, you can get tased or worse. As parents our goal should be raising a boy in America, not raising a black boy in America or a (fill in the blank) boy in America.

     I know that racism is and always will be a sensitive topic and most of us like to pretend that it doesn't exist anymore. It does exist. I myself like to live in my ignorantly bliss bubble and pretend that racism is something of the distant past, but if you would like to find out if it's as dead as you believe it to be, take a moment to look up a couple of things. The first thing I would suggest, is looking up "sun down towns" take note of where these towns are, you may be surprised. Another thing to look up is "disproportionate representation" in the department of human services and department of corrections in your state. Black and Hispanic kids are more likely to be overly reported for abuse and/or neglect, less likely to be placed back in their homes and less likely to be adopted. This means, a large group of these kids are being removed from their homes to grow up in the foster care system. Sadly not all of the kids put in this system even go to foster homes. They are placed in group homes or other residential settings. These are things people should be educated on. Different cultures parent differently and the colored representation in the department of human services portion is unjustly skewed. This is something I witnessed with my own eyes and it broke my heart every time.

     I could probably fill a book, but I will let you know, my children are raised differently. In my house, respect comes first, because outside of my house, I don't want my children to know the ugly that comes out of peoples mouths for their age appropriate behavior. My kids are happy kids, but when in public, they are on their best behavior, so they don't acquire the label of "that bad black kid." My kids speak properly, because I don't want them treated any differently because they "sound black." I do everything in my power so they don't acquire any negative stereotype, knowing no matter how hard I try they will still be labeled, because I am. I was raised in a white neighborhood, have a college education, was married to my children's father for 14 years, but I am a black mother of three. The last thing I said is the first thing they see.

What things have you heard being a mother of color, or simply a person of color? Share in the comment section.

Shower Therapy

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 21 Aug 2014 22:14:00 +0000

Am I the only one that uses showers as therapy? I love to just stand there for as long as possible, until all the hot water runs out. If I'm happy I shower. If I'm sad and need a good cry, I shower. If I'm mad, I shower. If I'm contemplating life decisions...you got it folks, I shower. I look like a lobster when I exit because I make the water as hot as I can stand it. Some people wonder why I don't do baths and it's really simple; I cannot sit still for that long. I need to expend energy almost constantly and sitting in a tub to relax makes me anxious. Maybe I'm a weirdo, but if you read the intro to my blog...I warned you!

Is Ferguson a Black Problem?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 18 Aug 2014 12:47:00 +0000

(image from: www.fastcompany.com)

With all of the unrest that is going on in Ferguson, MO one could come to the conclusion from the images on the screen, that this is a black problem. I disagree. What is happening in Ferguson and other communities across America, is an American problem, not just a black problem.

These officers and random vigilante citizens are killing American kids. These kids have futures, families and friends. These children could hold the cure to cancer or ALS. Their minds are not dull because of the color of their skin. They are not less than, because they are tan year round. These are America's babies. These are future presidents, doctors, and teachers. Shooting an unarmed child should not be tolerated by anyone.

The people of Ferguson are exercising their rights as American citizens and are being met with brute force by police officers. There are reports from the front line on what is occurring and a lot of what is being reported is of underhanded actions of the police. Police officers inciting the crowds to get a reaction that can be construed as violent, so they can in turn use violent force. It is not just citizens reporting such claims, but reporters as well.

I've always been taught, if you don't like something; change it, and that's what these people are doing. This is not the first time a police officer has shot an unarmed child without real immediate consequence. These officers receive pay while suspended and will likely return to work when the media coverage dies down. This behavior is unacceptable and as Americans we should demand more of the people sworn to protect us.

I really could go on forever on this topic, but I will leave you with these links. We need to show the world that we value ALL lives in our country. We need to show the local governments that we as Americans will not stand for this senseless behavior from our police officers and fearful citizens. No one should have to teach their children to fear police officers. This is all getting out of hand and we as Americans need to get mad enough to do something about it!

http://www.theroot.com/photos/2013/06/unarmed_black_men_shot_by_police_20_sad_stories.html

http://m.myfoxal.com/myfoxal/pm_/contentdetail.htm?contentguid=od:MeppdEqo

http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/5673291?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000010

http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/5678434?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000063

Perfectly Imperfect

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 12 Aug 2014 04:37:00 +0000

Ever since I was a preteen, I was teased. I was teased at home and at school. No, no one was just out right mean at home, but there was a lot of teasing going on that I now understand was body shaming. This revelation is not meant to make anyone feel badly, I wholeheartedly believe that if I had expressed how the joking and teasing made me feel, they would have stopped or at least tried. I grew up knowing I was loved. I knew my large family would do anything for me as I would for them, but the "harmless" teasing was hurtful. Things that I had no control over were fair game and still seem to be. From preteen to young adult, I heard things like "you're so skinny", "you have no shape whatsoever", "you don't have a black girl body", "you look like you need to eat a burger or four." Literally the list could go on and on. I often felt like I wasn't good enough, I didn't have the right kind of body to be black, I wasn't smart enough or pretty enough, I WASN'T ENOUGH!

It's slightly painful for me to even write this blog and a big part of me wishes that no one in my family ever reads it. I'm quickly going through my memory bank to see if anyone in my family reads this thing at all ha ha! Anyway, things are painful because as an adult I often find myself feeling like I'm not enough. I still hear the same comments "you don't have any boobs", "you don't even have a butt", "you're shaped like a toothpick", and since I started running I heard that I lost what little butt I did have. I'm also not supposed to exercise, you know, because I'm "already too skinny". I don't know where this ends. I get called out by complete strangers. I heard a mom tell her teenager (after her daughter said she wanted my body), that I was sick. Her exact words were "You don't want to look like her, she's sick. She has to throw up or not eat for her to stay that skinny. It's not natural. Men don't like women like that anyway." Yes, I remember word for word, because those words stung. Suddenly, I was back to being 14 and being accused of being anorexic in the hallways at school. I was so flabbergasted, I couldn't part my lips to respond. I just stood there and listened to her call me sick.

This is not a woe is me kind of blog, I grew up to be a confident self sufficient woman, but that took some work. It took one marriage and three kids before I figured out my worth. I got great at pretending to be confident and I had everyone fooled, except the men that were drawn to me. There was something that let them know that inside I was weak. I was never physically abused, but verbal abuse happened so subtly, that I was unaware that it could even be classified as verbal abuse. They wanted to pull me down, break me down, bring me to their level, because of their own insecurities and weaknesses. Spending two years alone and just focusing on myself and kids helped me find me. I was no longer that meek little girl. I knew my worth, I had a very short limit of the B.S. I would put up with and I've stuck to it.

...But, coming home, not to visit, but to stay, has changed my confidence (slightly) that I worked so hard to build. I'm hearing the same things, with a little giggle behind it. I stand and smile. I say nothing. My feelings are hurt, and I stand there smiling like a fool instead of speaking up. What is wrong with me? I can't help it that I'm thin. My "assets" are proportionate to my body, thankfully. People advocate for obese and average size women to feel comfortable and confident in their skin and I think it's great. What you don't hear about, is the shaming that goes on of us naturally thin girls, or previously overweight girls that worked their butts off (literally). I have had several gym memberships, but only went a hand full of times to each. When I did go to the gym, women would ask why I was there since I was already skinny. I would feel like I needed to go down my family's hereditary ailments that I was hoping to fight off. I never stayed long. If they didn't directly speak to me, they would talk about me a little louder than needed with their friend...or they would just stare me down with that look. Every woman knows that look. It's not friendly or inviting.

I was asked by some very sweet friends of mine a few years ago if "everything was alright," because I lost weight from being more active than I was when I first met them. They were sweet and caring in their approach, so I do not fault them. Others do it as a shame method. It's not OK to assume that someone has an eating disorder because they are not the size YOU think they should be. Eating disorders are serious business and shouldn't be joked about and the label shouldn't be shoved on someone because of their smaller size. I know a few people that struggle with food and feeling comfortable with eating and they need support not ostracized. People should feel comfortable at any size. It's not OK to shame overweight people and it's not OK to shame thin people. In the end, it's their body not yours. If you aren't happy with the way YOU look, do something about it. And if you don't know how to compliment another person, it's perfectly fine not to say anything at all. Don't make others feel badly.

Are we becoming a bubble wrap society?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 20 Mar 2014 00:28:00 +0000

There's something that has been bugging me over the past couple of years. First it was the participation trophies for having your name on the roster. You didn't even have to actually play. The snot nosed kid that sat on the bench crying every game because the grass was too wet or his cleats got mud in them (we all know that kid), well, even he gets a trophy. His total playing time was maybe 30 minutes during the entire season. Johnny Twoshoes that scored 85% of the goals and carried the team because his mother secretly banged Drew Brees (we all know this kid too!), well guess what; he gets the same participation trophy as Snotty McSnoterson over there. I don't think that's completely fair, and neither does a good majority of parents. Since most of us moms weren't lucky enough to have a super secret affair with a professional athlete, we take pride in our child's moderately deserved participation trophy. Heck, that's the only way I can keep up with what sports my kids have already tried and how many years they have been in a particular sport. Don't judge me.

Taking it a step further, there seems to be this "don't embarrass the child/no one should ever have their feelings hurt/completely child centered bullsh*t movement". Is this supposed to prepare our children for the real world? Let me explain where my frustration comes from. I teach pre-k and I absolutely love my job and my kids in my classroom. What I do not love is all of this touchy feely, don't hurt their feelings bullsh*t! We received a memo about a month or so ago about not using time out or separating them from the group as discipline for misbehaving. Now, this is preschool. Misbehaving is something that occurs on a daily...no, hourly basis. Some things are little like running in the classroom. Some things are big, such as slapping your friend with a book because she took the one with the ladybug on the front. Obviously one is more serious than the other. The first scenario needs a quick reminder of "we use walking feet in the classroom". The second scenario should do what?! I don't know, because we were never given a solution as to how to address the issue without using time out.

The reasoning behind this bullsh*t is their little feelings. Some where once upon a few months ago, some idiot did a study or not, I really don't know. Anyway, this a**hole decided that, putting children in time out would hurt their itty bitty feelings and would embarrass them. Well guess what?! It hurt little Lizzie's feelings when Jerkface Jr. smacked her in the face with a book. It hurt her feelings that he was only told to remember the rules. It hurt her feelings that 17 other children saw her get knocked upside the head with the dinosaur book. It hurt my feelings that one of my babies was hurt and upset and I couldn't fix it. Jerkface Jr. will go to kindergarten thinking its OK to smack kids with books, blocks, trucks or whatever her decided to use as a means to get what he wants.

On to the next pile of sh*t. We are being told not to reward the children for good behavior. "Children should behave because it's the right thing to do". I call BULLSH*T! Yes, you have some children that will behave no matter what and we all love those children. Then you have children like Jerkface Jr. that need a sticker chart or some other behavior modification tool, to get him to behave. Eventually, he will learn to do the right thing because it IS the right thing. Right now, bribery is the right thing. It gets Jerkface Jr. to behave occaisonally, so he can have a special treat from the treasure box and sweet angel Lizzie gets treats regularly just for being Lizzie DoGood.

Let's not leave out the parents that don't want to hurt their feelings. This is a class of 4-5 year olds. None of them can tie shoes, and only a few can zip their own jackets. A good portion of my day is spent zipping and buttoning pants, tying shoes and honestly, telling kids to figure it out. These children now days are so behind with everyday things because their parents don't want to hurt their f*cking feelings. I had a child in my class that did not learn how to put his own coat on until after his 5th birthday. Are you f*cking kidding me?!? We parents get so caught up in the rush of everyday that we don't teach our children the simple things and then when we try to teach them...they struggle. After watching them struggle for approximately 30 seconds, we do it for them. We don't want them to lack any confidence by hurting their feelings a little. Even if we aren't the ones hurting their feelings. His f*cking coat is hurting his feelings. I'm not going to be putting on my 16 year old's coat because I didn't want his feelings hurt when he was 2 and couldn't figure it out in under 30 seconds.

I just want to know when we as a society became so caught up on feelings. In the real world, if I slap a kid with a book, I'm going to get time out. I'll lose my job and do some time in jail. Time out at its finest for us adults. If I do an extra special how ya doin' kind of job, I'll get a bonus or raise or even just a small praise from my boss or colleagues. If I suck at something, I'll know because my mom isn't going to jump out of the bushes and fix it for me so I can have this false sense of confidence. Yes, my feelings will be hurt. Yes, I will get over it. Then I'll take the knowledge that I suck at this one particular thing and find something that I'm super awesome at eventually or I'll keep trying this thing I suck at until I rock it out. I don't get a participation trophy for being a mom. I don't even get a thank you for washing their stinky clothes. I know, motherhood is a thankless job, but d*mn it, where's my trophy?!? My kids are polite, sweet, respectful little creatures. They didn't come out like that! I just worry we are raising a society of overconfident, self-centered, egotistical Jerkface Jr.'s. Everyone's going to walk around thinking that their the best until someone says they think their hair is stupid, then they'll run screaming and crying with flailing arms to their moms basements and refuse to come out without their cubbie and a glass of chocolate milk with the special straw.

Ask yourself, are you one of these parents?

~J~

Nail Salon

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 13 Mar 2014 23:46:00 +0000

I'm currently at the Super Happy Nail Beautiful Salon getting a much needed pedicure while my best friend gets a St. Paddy's Day mani. The woman has spent about 20 minutes scrubbing my feet with the little cheese grater thingy, she rubs my feet and keeps scrubbing. Either this woman is really anal or my feet are horrible. Obviously I'm sitting here thinking my feet are just awful and I should never wear sandals again. I'll have to be that crazy lady that wears Jesus cruisers with her party socks and booty shorts.

I've been sitting here so long, my water is lukewarm at best. The massaging chair has come to an end, which I have mixed feelings about. There's a buttocks massager part of the chair that kept pushing a softball sized bump into my vag. I'm not sure if I should be offended or titilated.

Did this lady just upgrade me?! Hot stone massage that I'm almost positive I didn't ask for. Did I?! Was I drunk when I walked in the door? No, I'm sure you can't get drunk from thinking about a huge bottle of wine. These hot stones are phenomenal and so is Rose. Rose, I love you. My aching muscles want to ask for your hand in marriage. Thank you for the upgrade Rose, thank you! Ahhhhhh *heaven*

~J~